The Blind Boy

O SAY what is that thing call’d Light,  
 Which I must ne’er enjoy;  
What are the blessings of the sight,  
 O tell your poor blind boy!  
 
You talk of wondrous things you see,  
 You say the sun shines bright;  
I feel him warm, but how can he  
 Or make it day or night?  
 
My day or night myself I make  
 Whene’er I sleep or play;  
And could I ever keep awake  
 With me ’twere always day.  
 
With heavy sighs I often hear  
 You mourn my hapless woe;  
But sure with patience I can bear  
 A loss I ne’er can know.  
 
Then let not what I cannot have  
 My cheer of mind destroy:  
Whilst thus I sing, I am a king,  
 Although a poor blind boy.